


you and i got lost in it

by blamefincham



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4680050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need a favor,” Connor interrupts.</p><p>That does not make Dylan feel any better. If Connor has to drive them halfway to Guelph to even ask, it must be big. “Of course,” says Dylan at once.</p><p>Connor frowns at him, sidelong. “Don’t say that before I tell you what it is.”</p><p>Well, that’s not ominous at all. “What did you do, murder someone and need help hiding the body?” Dylan tries to chirp. Connor’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and i got lost in it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thistidalwave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/gifts).



> notes: so jenny knew that i was her author, but i managed to keep it a secret what pairing and fic i was writing this WHOLE TIME. be proud of me, internet, it was EXTREMELY DIFFICULT. esp when i was researching stuff for the fic and kept wanting to scream with her but couldn't give it away, so instead i just sent her contextless bits of dialogue with the names redacted. so i guess be proud of her for not killing me, too.
> 
> anyway, uh, jenny, i know this was your number two request, but i hope you like it anyway because it combines your two fave things, draft babies and fake dating. also i love you and i'm moderately sorry for torturing you for two months :)
> 
> title from tswift's "wonderland", which jenny sent to me during the writing process and said "connor and dylan :)" and i was like "great, and there's my title."

“It’s okay, Stromer, I’m here now, you can tell Papa Mitch _all_ about it,” says Mitch in a syrupy-sweet tone. The Skype video is pixelated to say the least—this hotel’s wifi is not the best—but Mitch’s smug smirk is distressingly clear anyway.

Dylan considers the benefits of slamming his laptop shut and ending this conversation right now. They are many, except that Mitch would just blow up his phone until he gave in and called him back. Ugh.

“Please _never_ call yourself that again. I’m gonna have nightmares, Marns,” Dylan complains. Mitch cracks up; the video freezes for a couple seconds when he’s making a terrible face, so Dylan takes a quick screenshot. Always good to have around. Just in case.

“I’m just trying to _lighten the mood_ , Dyl,” says Mitch when he recovers. “You text me all sad and serious, no typos, no emojis, like. Is somebody dying?”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “I already said no when you asked me that earlier.”

Mitch rolls his eyes right back, in a deliberate imitation. “Yeah, but it’s way easier to tell if you’re lying when I can see your face. So, okay, if it’s not death or dismemberment or fatal illness, what the hell _is_ it?” 

This is the moment. There’s no going back from this; once he says it out loud, Mitch has blackmail material on him for life, and also he’s going to have to stop lying to himself about it. Dylan steels himself, takes a deep breath, stares at the sprinkler on the hotel wall so he doesn’t have to look at Mitch, and says, “I think I’m in love with Connor.” 

Mitch makes a small, shocked little noise. Dylan keeps staring at the sprinkler. It’s quiet for a minute, just the hum of the air conditioner in the background, and then Mitch says, “Holy shit, you’re not even fucking with me, are you?”

Dylan has to look down at that so he can convey the proper amount of judgment. “Uh, no? What the hell, that would be a stupid thing to joke about.”

Mitch waves his hand impatiently. “No, I mean—seriously? Is this any kind of a revelation to you at all? Like. _Duh_. Of course you’re in love with Davo.” 

Well, that’s—not what Dylan had expected Mitch’s reaction to be. “What do you mean, ‘Of course I’m in love with—’”

“I’ll be honest, I kind of thought you guys were dating already, and I was a little ticked off you hadn’t told me. I mean, you’re all over each other all the time, you’re attached at the hip, and when you are apart, you talk each other up to anyone who’ll listen...It doesn’t take a genius.” 

“Which is good, because you’re not one,” says Dylan faintly, automatically. He’s glad he’s trained his body’s chirping reflex so well, because he’s not sure how coherent of a response he could formulate on his own at the moment.

Mitch doesn’t even bother to answer that chirp. “So, like, if you’re really not, then—why not?”

Dylan frowns at him. “Uh, gee, I don’t know, maybe ‘cause it’s a terrible idea? Like, we’re gonna get drafted in a year, to different teams unless there’s some hockey miracle—”

“You realise I’m not asking you why you’re not _married_ , right, Stromer? Jesus, we’re seventeen, people celebrate monthiversaries. So going to different teams in a year is a stupid reason. Got any others?” 

Dylan does, in fact: like how would the team react; and what if they dated and broke up, would that affect their chemistry on the ice; and he doesn’t have any idea if Connor would even be interested in him, no matter what Mitch seems to think. But he knows if he lists them, Mitch is just going to argue with him, and that’s not the point of this Skype call.

He sighs at his laptop. “I didn’t call you to be rational, Mitch, I called you to vent. Will you just be my friend and make sympathetic noises while I’m totally pathetic about this?”

Mitch shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Sorry, just trying to help. You’ve got thirty seconds of chirp-free whining, and after that you can keep whining but no promises on me being nice about it. Starting now.”

Well, if he’s going to make an offer like _that_ , Dylan’s not going to pass it up. He flops dramatically on his back, angles the camera so Mitch can see him, and starts venting about how ridiculously hot and nice and perfect Connor is. It’s really therapeutic, and Mitch doesn’t even chirp him much when he goes over time. 

—

They’re down 3-0 in the series to Guelph, and then they win at home, and everyone’s gearing up for a reverse-sweep Cinderella run to the Memorial Cup—and then they go to Guelph and get shut out, 5-0. 

It’s painful, and it sucks, and the four-hour bus ride feels like it lasts for years. The coaches say they’re proud of how much the team’s improved, how they’re going to make a real run for the Cup next year, and they probably even mean it—it just rings a little hollow in the moment.

Dylan watches Connor go around to guys who look devastated, trying to talk them up—he doesn’t even have a letter, but it’s clearly just a matter of time for that. He’s always been drawn to responsibility like a moth to a flame. When Connor’s done, he climbs into the window seat Dylan left open for him and slumps forward like his strings were cut.

“We’ll get them next year, Daver,” says Dylan, angling his body so nobody else can see Connor looking so defeated. It’s just a platitude, but Dylan thinks somebody should try to comfort Connor, since Connor spends so much energy comforting everybody else. He throws his arm around Connor’s shoulders and gives his far shoulder a rough squeeze.

Connor sighs, in marked contrast to the positivity he’s been doling out all night, but he leans into the brief embrace, and Dylan can feel him nodding. He pulls his arm back, but Connor stays where he is, pressed against Dylan from shoulder to knee. “There’s nothing you and I can’t make happen if we put our minds to it, Stromer,” Connor says quietly. 

It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to comfort Dylan; if anything it sounds like he’s comforting himself. But he says it with such conviction, it’s like—it’s a little scary, but it makes Dylan want to _make_ it true. It does more to take Dylan’s mind off the loss than anything anyone’s said so far, that’s for sure.

Dylan puts his arm back around Connor’s shoulders. In the darkness of the bus, it’s hard to tell, but he thinks he sees a ghost of a smile on Connor’s face.

—

It’s a whirlwind once they’re back in Erie; locker cleanout and packing and saying goodbye to their billet families for the summer and heading home. Dylan commiserates with Mitch a little, since the Storm knocked the Knights out too, but he doesn’t hear from Connor until he turns up at Dylan’s house unannounced, about a week into their offseason. 

Dylan doesn’t _mind_ seeing him—he had been starting to get worried that Connor was trying to drown himself in his shower or something, roiling with guilt over being unable to bring a franchise from the bottom of the league to the top in two seasons—but it is a little surprising. Mississauga and Newmarket aren’t exactly in the same neighborhood. Yet, here Connor is, standing awkwardly in Dylan’s kitchen, twirling his keys around his finger. 

He considers inviting Connor up to hang out in his room, but both Matt and Ryan are home, and if they do that, one or both of them will inevitably drop in and do something horrifically embarrassing. So instead, Dylan puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders and steers him out the door he just came in, saying, “Let’s go hang out somewhere my brothers aren’t.” 

Connor laughs. “Sick of them already?” 

“You can’t tell me you haven’t gotten in at least one fight with Cam since you’ve both been home,” Dylan shoots back as he climbs into Connor’s car. Connor says nothing, but that’s an answer in itself. 

They end up at a Timmie’s, where they split a doughnut, which is maybe the most sad and depressing thing Dylan’s ever done, except for all the other times he’s done it. Even during the offseason, Connor can’t be tempted into the empty calories of a whole doughnut, but if Dylan gets one and only eats half, he’ll go for the other half. It’s one of the many strategies Dylan’s learned for coaxing Connor into little indulgences over the years. He tries not to think about who’s going to do that when they get drafted to different teams.

They hang out there for a while, shooting the shit kind of aimlessly. Dylan’s just waiting, because if he just asks Connor why he drove all the way to Mississauga, Connor will totally shut down on him, but if he waits him out, he’ll say it eventually. There’s a lull in the conversation, and Connor takes a deep breath, like he’s going to say something serious—but then his attention is drawn by something over Dylan’s left shoulder. When Dylan turns, he can see a couple of girls taking pictures of them on their phones.

“Can we just go, like. Drive around, for a bit? I wanted to ask you something,” says Connor. Dylan turns back around and nods, maybe a little too quickly. Sue him, he’s kind of nervous now that Connor’s getting around to the point of his visit.

They get back in Connor’s car. Dylan thought they were going to drive around, but Connor seems to know where he’s going, because he heads for the highway: west, west, west, until they’ve been sitting in silence in the car for half an hour, and Dylan can’t take the anticipation anymore. “C’mon, Connor, whatever it is—”

“I need a favor,” Connor interrupts.

That does not make Dylan feel any better. If Connor has to drive them halfway to Guelph to even ask, it must be big. “Of course,” says Dylan at once.

Connor frowns at him, sidelong. “Don’t say that before I tell you what it is.”

Well, that’s not ominous at all. “What did you do, murder someone and need help hiding the body?” Dylan tries to chirp. Connor’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

There’s another long pause. Connor checks his mirrors, changes lanes. Then he takes the next exit, seemingly at random. While they’re waiting for the traffic to clear so he can turn, Connor says, “My family has this summer barbecue thing coming up, and my mom’s been really getting on me about not having like, a life outside of hockey? I mean, she knows I have friends, but she keeps saying she wishes I’d date someone, so…” Connor swallows, keeps his eyes on the road. “Would you go with me and pretend to be dating me?” 

A lane opens up, and Connor turns. He’s got a bit of a lead foot, and Dylan’s knocked back into his seat—though really, he thinks a light breeze could’ve done that. He needs to buy himself time to freak out without Connor realising what’s going on, so he says, much more lightly than he feels, “Is that it? I was starting to think you really _did_ kill someone.” 

Connor does not look at Dylan and continues as if Dylan hadn’t said anything. “It’s not—it shouldn’t be a big deal, it’s just a day. I know it’s stupid, but...please, Stromer?” 

Jesus Christ. If he’s breaking out the ‘please,’ he’s really committed to this plan. Dylan wishes Connor was asking for real, because this is going to be so close to what he really wants—it’s going to hurt. He knows that. But Connor asking so seriously does make him stop freaking out, because he knows he’s already made his choice.

He can at least make Connor sweat a little, though. “Couldn’t you, like, actually date someone? I’m pretty sure you could get a date just by walking into a room and being like, ‘I’m Connor McDavid.’”

Connor looks away from the road to raise an eyebrow at Dylan. Dylan snickers at the very image of Connor doing something like that. Connor laughs too—at the same thing, Dylan’s sure—but then he says, “I just don’t want my parents to worry about me, you know?”

Which is not an answer to Dylan’s very valid point about him just dating someone, but is a classic example of what an annoyingly good person Connor is. A lot of guys would say that, but he knows Connor actually _means_ it, not ‘I just want them off my back but I’m gonna say this because it sounds better.’ 

There’s really no coming back from how far Dylan has fallen. He knows this, he’s accepted it, he may as well give in to Connor now. “Ugh. Fine, Davo, sure, I’ll be your fake boyfriend. But you owe me big time.”

That makes Connor break out into such a blindingly huge grin, Dylan wishes he were wearing sunglasses. “Awesome!” Connor says. “So, we should figure out our backstory, and boundaries, and stuff.” 

“Oh my God,” Dylan groans, dropping his head against the window. Of course being Connor’s fake boyfriend requires a tactical meeting. If they were at home, Dylan would bet on him bringing out his whiteboard.

—

It turns out that when Connor said “coming up,” he meant the barbecue was the following weekend. That turns out to be a good thing, because it doesn’t leave Dylan with much time to worry before Connor is outside his house early Saturday morning.

He’s halfway down the stairs when Connor lets himself in through the garage. Dylan stops short and frowns down at him. “What, not fast enough for you?” 

“No, I need to get something from your room,” says Connor. Dylan can’t remember Connor leaving anything the last time he was over, but Connor doesn’t wait for permission, just takes the stairs two at a time, shoulders Dylan out of the way as he passes him, and proceeds down the hall to Dylan’s room.

Dylan trails after him, and as he comes through the door, he sees Connor digging around in his closet. He doesn’t really care about the privacy violation—they’ve been living out of each other’s pockets for too long for him to get precious about _that_ —but he could probably expedite this process if Connor would tell him what he was looking for. Before he can offer, though, Connor lets out a little cheer and pulls out something navy. 

“What is that?” Dylan asks as Connor tugs it on. What it is is apparently an Otters hoodie—which is totally unnecessary, since it’s May. Dylan opens his mouth to revise his question to ‘why’ when Connor turns around and points to his back.

STROME 19, says the hoodie in gold and red. “This will totally sell it,” says Connor triumphantly. 

Dylan swallows hard. It’s so stupid to feel so affected by Connor wearing his name and number—but he is, and he can’t help it, so he’ll just have to try and act normal. “Yeah, absolutely,” he manages. 

—

The drive is just like any other road trip they’ve taken: Dylan picks the music, because he has strong opinions about it and Connor doesn’t, and Connor drives, because he’s a terrible navigator and, in his own words, “I like it when you tell me what to do, Stromer.” 

Dylan won’t— _can’t_ —unpack that sentence, not today when he’s going to have to be completely chill about pretending to date Connor in front of his entire family, so he just—compartmentalizes it for later, laughs it off as best he can. “If that was really true, you’d listen better,” he says, and Connor laughs, so he thinks he did okay.

Not long after that, though, Connor drops his hand onto Dylan’s knee. Dylan hadn’t realized he’d been jiggling it up and down, but he stops the minute Connor touches him. He looks up at Connor sharply, but Connor’s eyes are on the road. “No need to be so nervous, Stromer,” he says, infuriatingly calm as usual.

“I’m not—” Dylan starts to protest, but Connor continues talking right over him.

“We’re totally gonna pull this off. Nothing we can’t do, remember?” Connor’s hand is warm against Dylan’s bare knee. He still hasn’t moved it, and now Dylan’s remembering that night when they were eliminated, Connor slumping against him, and he can’t help the spark of hope in his chest that says _maybe._

But Connor keeps talking. “And like, you know me like nobody else, and we’re always getting chirped for being all over each other. It’ll be cake. People see what they want to see, you know? We tell them we’re dating, and suddenly this doesn’t look so innocent,” says Connor, punctuating his statement with a little slap to Dylan’s knee, and then he pulls his hand back.

It feels a little like a slap in the face—or a reminder from the universe to Dylan not to get his hopes up. He’s probably just _seeing what he wants to see_. He nods, then adds “Yeah,” a beat too late when he remembers Connor’s not looking at him. There must be something off in his voice, by the way Connor spares him a concerned little glance, but he doesn’t ask for a reason, and Dylan’s sure as hell not offering one. 

—

It takes them a little over an hour to get to Connor’s aunt’s house, where they’re greeted enthusiastically by four small children the second the car comes to a complete stop. 

“Why don’t you let the boys get out first?” calls a female voice from the direction of the house. 

The oldest girl looks indignant. “We waited until the car stopped like you told us to!” 

Dylan has to wonder if the kids, who are evidently Connor’s—second cousins, or cousins removed, or something, Dylan can never remember the difference—the children of his older cousins, anyway—are excited to see him (and by extension Dylan) mostly because Connor’s the next coming of Hockey Jesus (which makes Dylan Hockey Peter, he guesses?). But it’s apparent pretty quickly that that isn’t true: in fact, no one mentions hockey at all for a while, and instead they get drawn into a game of jarts.

The nice thing about playing a game with a bunch of children is that it’s a good way to ease into their whole fake boyfriend routine. Dylan isn’t sure what Connor’s told his parents or the rest of his family, but they don’t do anything drastic: Connor stands closer to him than he otherwise might, and sets his hand on the small of Dylan’s back when he’s passing by him, but neither of those are outside the bounds of normalcy. 

Dylan’s just starting to feel like he can handle this when they go inside to get cleaned up and help with the food, so of course that’s when Connor ramps it up more. He’s following Connor to the porch, eyes helplessly drawn to the STROME 19 on his back, when Connor slows his steps and extends his hand. The gesture is expectant, but Connor’s not even looking at Dylan, he’s so sure he’ll read the play and execute it. 

And Dylan does, of course; he reaches down and twines his fingers with Connor’s. Even though Dylan tries to take charge where he can, ease a little of the weight of the world off Connor’s shoulders, he’s still happy to do what Connor needs him to do. Partially because he has a giant, stupid crush on him, sure, but also because Connor’s never led him astray before. 

Connor’s hand is nice to hold. It’s a little sweaty, since they were just playing with kids in the heat and Connor’s got that stupid hoodie on, but Dylan’s a professional athlete, he’s not afraid of a little sweat. More importantly, it’s _Connor’s_ hand, and he gives Dylan’s a little squeeze as they walk into the house. 

This means that Dylan is smiling when they run into Connor’s mom. She beams at the sight of them—her eyes go straight to their hands—and she actually hugs Dylan first rather than her own son. Reluctantly, Dylan drops Connor’s hand to hug her back. “I’m so glad you could join us today, Dylan,” she says warmly. 

“Thank you for having me,” Dylan says politely, and she smiles even brighter. As soon as she’s finished hugging Connor, he takes Dylan’s hand back. It’s a little possessive. Dylan refuses to think about how much he likes that.

Dylan knows that like—he’s not really dating Connor, and anyway he’s known Connor’s mom for almost as long as he’s known Connor himself, so there’s no reason for him to worry about impressing her, but...he still wants to. He smiles at her and says, “Is there anything we can help with? Food, or…?” 

Connor’s mom bites her lip. “Well, if you two wouldn’t mind taking some hamburgers and stuff out to the grill? It’s about time for my brother and sister to have their annual show-off—I mean, grill-off.” 

Dylan and Connor both snicker. They have to let go of each other’s hands again to accept the trays of hamburgers, hot dogs, and brats she gives them, and a tiny part of Dylan regrets offering—because what if Connor doesn’t reach for his hand again this time? What if this was all he’ll ever get?—but then Connor’s mom leans in and says quietly, “And if the two of you want to go sneak off somewhere after you drop these off, well...as long as you’re back in time for dinner, I won’t go looking for you.”

“ _Mom_ ,” Connor protests, sounding his age for once. He’s blushing all the way down his neck, and Dylan’s sure he is too, but Connor’s mom just winks at them, unperturbed.

“I remember what it was like being your age,” she says serenely. Connor looks like he wants to protest some more, but she gets her hands on their shoulders and steers them back towards the patio. “Go on, or else your aunt will come in here and start waving her barbecue fork around,” she says.

Her hand lingers on the STROME across Connor’s shoulders for just a second too long. Connor doesn’t seem to notice, but Dylan does—and then, mortifyingly, she notices him noticing. She gives Dylan a sly smile, and Dylan instantly looks away, suddenly way more invested in getting out of this kitchen than he was a minute ago.

—

With a clear invitation like that, it would almost be more suspicious if they _didn’t_ sneak off. At least, that’s Connor’s argument, and Dylan can’t refute it, so they slip into the woods at the edge of his aunt’s yard as soon as they drop off the meat.

Connor checks his watch once they’re out of sight. “We’ve probably got, like, half an hour?”

“That seems long, if the meat’s already ready to go on the grill,” says Dylan. 

“Yeah, but the grill-off always involves lots of flipping stuff in the air and inevitably ruining the first batch of whatever, so.” 

Connor definitely knows his family better than Dylan does, so Dylan concedes the point with a shrug. They fall into a comfortable quiet, just sort of wandering the perimeter of the woods aimlessly, before Connor breaks the silence by saying, “You should let me give you a hickey.” 

Dylan—genuinely isn’t sure he heard what he thought he heard. Connor can’t have just said—there’s _no_ way. “What?” he says hoarsely. 

Connor rolls his eyes, clearly impatient. “It doesn’t have to be a big one, Stromer. But they’re gonna be suspicious if we don’t look like we were making out. I mean, that’s what we would be doing if we were actually dating, right?” 

He’s staring directly into Dylan’s eyes as he says that, and it’s _so_ close to everything Dylan’s ever wanted. He can’t—he knows it would be smarter to say no, that’s too far, to suggest they just mess up their hair or whatever, but...Dylan also knows this is the only chance he’ll ever have to have this, and at least if he says yes, he’ll know what it felt like. Getting some of what he wants is probably better than not getting any of it. 

Probably.

“Right,” he manages after what’s definitely too long of a pause. “Yeah, you’re right. Uh, go ahead, I guess.” 

There’s something a little mischievous in Connor’s expression as he smiles at Dylan and steps closer. Dylan’s first instinct is to step away, but he forces himself to hold his ground. God, his heart is _racing_. Connor’s definitely going to be able to tell, but—whatever, this whole thing is his fault anyway. 

Connor takes another step closer—Dylan stays rooted to the ground—and then a half step, and then when Dylan inhales he can feel his chest bump Connor’s. He has no idea what his face is doing, and there’s no way Connor doesn’t notice his shallow breaths, but Connor seems unperturbed. He sets one hand on Dylan’s left shoulder and one on his waist, and then leans in to kiss his neck. 

He’s gentle at first, for a couple seconds, just mouthing against the skin, but then he starts to suck in earnest, and it takes every ounce of strength Dylan has not to groan. Dylan has no idea what to do with his hands, so they’re sort of awkwardly hanging at his sides, but when he feels Connor nip at his skin, he curls them into fists. 

Helplessly, Dylan angles his head away to give Connor better access, and Connor hums a little pleased noise into his skin. He bites Dylan again, gently, and really, he had better be done soon, or this is going to be incredibly embarrassing for them both when Dylan gets hard and Connor can feel it. 

As if he’s read Dylan’s mind, Connor pulls away at last, though just far enough to inspect his work. “Perfect,” he says, and the air from his exhale blows over the wet, sensitive patch on Dylan’s skin, making him shiver. 

Connor steps away then, and Dylan’s not sure if he’s more relieved or disappointed. “Want to see?” Connor offers, and Dylan nods, not trusting his voice. Connor pulls out his phone, snaps a picture, and passes it to Dylan. 

It’s not a big mark, but it’s definitely—apparent, and far enough above the collar of Dylan’s shirt that it’ll be hard to miss. He kind of wants to save the picture forever, but there’s not an easy way to do that from Connor’s phone. Dylan’s about to hand it back when suddenly Connor’s hands are in his hair, messing it up. “There, now you really look perfect,” Connor teases. 

Dylan lets out an exasperated sigh—so much for the good impression he was trying to make—but then he gets a better idea. “Well, so, I have to fuck up your hair too, right Davo?” 

“If you can catch me,” says Connor at once, and he takes off running. This, at least, is familiar territory, and Dylan chases after him without a second thought, laughing as they weave through the trees.

—

Connor’s ruse definitely works, in that when they return to the barbecue, the adults give them lots of knowing looks. Dylan holds tight to Connor’s hand and says nothing, because it’s not like there’s any defense against them—and besides, if they were really dating, he’d be...well, embarrassed by the attention, sure, but a little proud, too. 

The actual food at this barbecue is excellent, which may be in part because Dylan is starving. Apparently anxiety works up quite an appetite. They get audibly cooed at by Connor’s aunt during dinner, which at first is a little confusing to Dylan since they had to stop holding hands to eat, but then he realizes she’s reacting to Connor stealing all the watermelon out of Dylan’s fruit salad and Dylan taking the grapes from Connor’s. 

When she coos at them, Connor and Dylan look at each other, and Dylan abruptly knows what Connor’s going to do. He follows the play: opens his mouth and lets Connor feed him a grape, and in a rush of bravery, swipes his tongue across the pad of Connor’s thumb as he pulls away. Connor looks impressed.

—

After dinner, everyone self-segregates by age: the adults drinking on the porch, the children playing in the house, and the older kids out by the bonfire. Dylan and Connor are in this last group, along with a handful of Connor’s cousins, one of whom produces a few cases of beer and passes them around without asking how old anyone is. 

They drink a few beers, which is enough to make Dylan feel a little buzzed—happy, and warm, but nothing ridiculous. Although, that might not even be the beer; it could be the way that with every drink Connor takes of his, he shifts closer and closer to Dylan until he’s practically in Dylan’s lap. 

“You two are gross,” complains one of Connor’s cousins from the other side of the fire. He’s not the one who brought the beer, so Dylan doesn’t really care what he thinks.

“So’s your jealousy,” Connor shoots back, though it’s slightly muffled by Dylan’s collarbone. Dylan can feel Connor’s lips moving against his skin and desperately wants him to stop talking or never stop talking, or both at once, somehow. At least he’s not on the side with the hickey, although at this rate he might leave a matching one before the night is over. He’s pretty sure Connor’s even more tipsy than he is, so he can’t resist cupping the back of Connor’s head, kind of protectively. Connor makes a pleased little noise at that and nuzzles even closer. Dylan might actually die. 

The party, such as it is, breaks up not long after that. Most families head out, but neither Dylan nor Connor are fit to drive, so Maddie, Connor’s cousin who actually lives here, offers them her futon in the basement rec room. “Sorry, it’s not much, and probably not big enough, but…” She kind of smirks, and in that moment looks very much like her mom, who cooed at them earlier. “I doubt the two of you are gonna mind that too much.”

Dylan blushes, again. He feels like he’s been red in the face all day, but obviously their little ruse worked perfectly—no one’s questioned whether they are really dating, and Connor’s mom in particular was over the moon. Dylan kind of hates how easy it was for them to fall into this, especially because he doubts it will be this easy for him, at least, to get out of it.

Particularly when Connor is hanging off Dylan’s side and laughing along with Maddie. It’s really not all that different from times they’ve illicitly gotten drunk with teammates, except that those times have never ended in the two of them sharing a twin-sized futon. 

If Connor was all over him before, it’s nothing compared to now, where he’s almost entirely on top of Dylan. That’s partially a necessity to make them both fit on the futon, but—they could lay side by side. It’s not like anyone’s watching them now. But Connor seems comfortable, and Dylan’s certainly not going to make him move. 

—

It doesn’t take Dylan long to fall asleep; he’s used to the quiet, murmury noises Connor makes in his sleep, and those, plus the alcohol and the warmth of Connor’s body, are a lethal combination. It does take him a long time to wake up, though. They’re in the basement, so Dylan can’t see the sun to tell the time, and it’s not like he’s got plans today, so he sort of lets himself float between dreams and waking for a while. 

Especially because in his dream he’s exchanging lazy kisses with Connor, which is extremely pleasant and not a thing he’s in any hurry to wake up from. The kisses are unhurried, almost tender, and Connor is definitely as into it as Dylan is—which is why it feels like a bucket of cold water over his head when a door slams somewhere upstairs, they both jump, Connor bites Dylan’s lip accidentally, and Dylan realizes he wasn’t actually dreaming this part. 

He rolls away immediately, as far as he can get in the tiny futon. “Oh fuck, Davo, I’m so sorry, man, I—I thought I was still asleep, I guess, and—” Dylan apologizes, his mind reeling as he tries to come up with a reason why even his subconscious felt like it was a good idea to kiss his best friend. 

Before he gets any excuse out, though, Connor reaches over and sets a hand on his arm. “Dyl, it’s fine.” Dylan’s rolled over, so he can’t see Connor’s face, but two of Connor’s fingers are definitely stroking soothing circles into his arm, just below the sleeve of his T-shirt, and that does not feel like a platonic gesture. But maybe it is, and Dylan’s whole sense of what’s okay and what’s not has been thrown off by this ridiculous charade. Either way he can’t make himself look Connor in the eye, not yet.

And then Connor says, “It’s better than fine, actually. You saved me the trouble of trying to convince you.”

Which doesn’t make sense at all, and Dylan has to roll over and frown at him. Connor’s smiling, soft and warm, and his expression doesn’t change at all when Dylan says, “Convince me of what?” 

“That it’s not a terrible idea to date me after all,” Connor says. 

At first that doesn’t help clear the confusion at all, and then Dylan is abruptly reminded of the Skype conversation he had with Mitch a couple months ago, back when he’d just realized how very fucked he was. Immediately, he starts plotting Mitch’s demise, because if Mitch _told_ Connor, then Dylan is going to have to kill him. 

Connor must see the murderous look in Dylan’s eyes, because he quickly adds, “I overheard you telling Mitch you were in love with me—I was just about to come in the door when you said that, and then I couldn’t not listen, because I had feelings for you, too.” Connor looks about as nervous as Dylan’s ever seen him, but he’s still smiling like he can’t help himself, like he’s maybe as happy as Dylan’s ever seen him, too.

“But then you said that dating me would be a terrible idea, so I had to figure out how to show you it wouldn’t be, which took me a while, and then playoffs happened, so it had to wait. I was going to tell you this today anyway, and basically say, look, we had a great time, it wouldn’t be terrible at all, so let’s date for real, but I’m not going to complain about skipping that step and going straight to kissing.”

It takes Dylan at least thirty seconds to formulate any kind of reply to that, during which time Connor’s expression goes from smug to slightly worried. There are about fifteen thoughts warring to come out of Dylan’s mouth, and the winner ends up being, “Oh my god, you’re such a _freakjob_. Was your mom even on your case or was that just made up for an excuse?”

Connor ducks his head and looks a little sheepish. “I got her in on the plan, actually.” 

Even given the world-altering events of this morning, Dylan wouldn’t have expected that. An actual adult condoning this ridiculous plan of Connor’s—“ _Such_ a _freak_ ,” Dylan repeats. 

Connor grins at him. “Maybe I am, but you want to date me, so I think that makes you even weirder,” he teases. Then he reaches his hand out to Dylan. “So, we doing this, Stromer?”

Dylan should probably think about it, but he doesn’t think a world exists where Connor wants to date him and he’s strong enough to tell him no. “It’s definitely still a terrible idea, but…” He takes Connor’s hand and shakes it, as much as he can in the foot of space between them. “Fuck it, we’re teenagers, we’re supposed to do stupid shit, right?” 

“How romantic,” Connor deadpans, and then he leans in over their joined hands to kiss Dylan some more.


End file.
